


Nobody Said It Was Easy

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blowjobs, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Complicated Feelings, Rimming, Rough Sex, Somewhere S7/8, Unrequited Sheith, complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-14 00:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: “Keith?” Soft footsteps bring him closer. Keith imagines he might be reaching out. He dashes it quickly. Softness was never their thing; tenderness never grew between them.James’ fingers brush a lock of sweat-damp hair at Keith’s crown; not even enough to move it, but just to touch, tentative and light. It takes all Keith has not to lean into the touch.“I don't hate you, you know,” James says. The silence stretches between them and fills the room like wet cotton. “Never did... but damn, sometimes I wish you’d make it easier to like you.”An answer tumbles from his lips before Keith can stop it. “Yeah, well, didn’t have anyone to teach me how to be likeable.”





	Nobody Said It Was Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Here I sit, in rare-pair hell. Not that I actually ship them, but... okay, I kinda ship them, they're like a missed connection post on Craigslist. Tragic.

_Who does he think he is, anyway?_

The punching bag groans under the force of the kick, swinging wildly on its chain tether. Keith steadies it before turning into a spin and striking out again. Sweat drips down his brow, his neck, his chest, the thin material of his training suit clinging like a second skin.

Keith wipes his forehead and dances around the leather bag with cracking kicks and heavy punches. He grinds his teeth against the growing soreness of his muscles and presses on, the creak of the bag and his own grunts of exertion filling the air.

_James almost got himself killed with that stunt._

Keith’s temper flares at the memory, hot and churning, the jagged _crunch_ of James’ plane partially disintegrating under the flare of cannon fire would forever rattle around in his brain. It was too close—far too close, and it could have been avoided, and even though they hadn’t lost both pilot and plane, it was a loss humanity could hardly suffer. Keith’s fists pound deeper into the worn leather, sharp and quick until his hand slips. The skin of his knuckles splits beneath thin hand wraps.

He stills the bag and drops his hands to his thighs, panting. “Fucking idiot,” he grinds out.

The door hisses behind him. “Oh, it’s you,” a familiar voice sneers.

_Speak of the damned devil._

Keith straightens and glances over his shoulder to meet James’ scowl. “Here to wreck the training room as badly as your jet? Be my guest.” He stretches his arms out and moves to exit, only to be stopped by James’ hand at his wrist.

“I didn’t wreck it, I saved us!” James hisses, face reddening. His fingers tighten. “If you just trusted me—”

“You were with Voltron,” Keith snaps, “and should have been listening to me. You almost got yourself killed. You’re _lucky_ it’s just your jet that needs repairs.”

James scoffs and drops Keith’s hand. “You think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you? Paladin of Voltron, Shiro’s right-hand man—”

“—don’t bring him into this!”

“You even have Holt eating out of the palm of your hand.” James crowds forward into Keith’s space. “Admit it! You think you’re better than us!”

Keith’s fists clench restlessly at his sides. His muscles tense. It’s not the first time he’s gotten into a fistfight with James Griffin, but he’s better than that. Theoretically. Hopefully.

“You have no idea what I’ve seen, what I’ve had to do,” Keith says. He hisses a breath between his teeth, halfway between meditative and murderous. “What I’ve had to learn. Trust me when I say you should be glad you’ve never had to do the same.”

“And you don’t know what I’ve had to do, either, so why don’t _you_ learn to trust that I know what I’m doing?” James answers coldly. “While you were gallivanting off in space we’ve been here building our defenses, fighting off the occupation, freeing civilians—you know, doing what we could to survive, all by the skin of our teeth. And then here you come in your overgrown cats to save the day.”

Keith snorts. “They’ve saved your ass enough, haven’t they? Of the two of us, who’s currently grounded while their ship is in the engineering hangar?”

“Oh, you fucking—”

He almost dodges in time. James’ right hook glances across his jaw. Keith’s response is automatic; he ducks from under the next hit and shoves at James’ ribs. “You don’t want to do this right now.”

James’ eyes narrow and he rolls his shoulders. “Oh, I’ve wanted to do this all day,” he mutters. “For years.”

They’re almost evenly matched when the fists start flying. James has clearly spent time in the training room back at the Garrison, years of activity even before Sendak’s invasion honing his body into a lean mass of muscle. Keith watches his shoulders bunch, the muscles of his chest ripple beneath the cotton of his shirt, the way James telegraphs and cleverly feints his movements.

It’s like an out-of-body experience, and it’s even more confusing than the literal out-of-body experience he’d had in Black’s inner consciousness.

Keith darts backward to dodge a hit and James overextends, leaving himself open. He sweeps James’ legs out from under him and pushes him onto his front. Straddling his hips, Keith wrenches James’ free arm to his low back, the other caught underneath him. James twists but only manages to smush his cheek into the padded mats.

“Yield, dammit,” Keith bites out. He pulls James’ arm slightly in warning.

James grimaces. “Fuck you.” He bucks and twists, shoving Keith off. James lunges and knocks Keith to his back. His hands wrench Keith’s wrists above his head, pinning him.

A hard _whuff_ punches from Keith’s chest when he lands against the mat and heat crawls up his spine. James blots out the fluorescent lights above them, eyes bright, cheeks stained pink with exertion. His hair is a riot atop his head, and Keith knows that his own can’t be much better.

Jesus, this isn’t the time for sudden _interest,_ and yet.

James settles his weight atop him, knees bracketing Keith’s hips. A smirk creeps across his face and sets Keith blood boiling, made only worse when James shifts above him. He leans forward, bracing himself on Keith’s wrists.

“I think we know who won this one,” James snarks, eyes boring into Keith’s own.

The thing about James is that he learned to play by the books before he learned anything else. Keith resented that, the safe way. The expected way. You could do something right or you could do something better, and he and James had always butted heads on which tack to take.

But Keith learned to listen to his gut long ago, and it’s kept him alive in the group home and in space.

Keith lunges up and presses his mouth sloppily to James’ own on instinct before he can think it through.

A surprised gasp quickly dissolves into a strangled whine. Keith’s skin burns beneath his suit where they touch. His hands flex in James’ grip and he shifts, biting into James’ mouth. James opens to Keith as his fingers go slack and he moans at the intrusion of Keith’s tongue. He tastes like coffee and blood and a hint of something spicy, maybe pepper or cinnamon.

_Abort, abort, abort._

Keith rolls them over. He needs to get up, shove James into the mats and leave. His knee slides between James’ own and he doesn’t end up levering himself away; instead, lean legs tangle with his own to hold him down and James tunnels a hand into his hair. A tug at his braid pulls a groan from Keith’s lips that gets caught between them. His cock chafes against the fabric of his suit and James’ own arousal is insistent where he rubs along Keith’s thigh.

_God, fuck._

James shifts and Keith slots easily between his thighs. A rough roll of his hips has James keening, the sound muffled between their mouths, and, fascinated, Keith does it again. The hand in Keith’s hair tightens and yanks his head back, and James attacks the stretch of his neck that lay exposed, nipping and mouthing at the sensitive skin.

“F-fuck,” Keith breathes. He slides his hand between them to palm at James’ cock; Keith thumbs at the damp spot of his shorts a moment before slipping inside the material. James is hot and heavy and throbbing in his hand. Keith strokes with a tight fist and James whines against his throat. “Yeah?” Keith mutters shakily. “You like that?” James bites down on the meat of his shoulder and Keith grinds against him harder.

“Don’t—” James shakes beneath him, his thighs tightening around Keith’s hips. “Don’t stop—God, don’t stop.”

Keith swipes his thumb over the wet head of James’ cock. The angle is awkward, but it’s absolutely maddening, the way his body sings with every movement. Keith shifts to rut into the vee of James’ thighs, brushing against his own hand, and hisses a string of curses at the way James moves under him. It’s too much and not enough all the same. His breath comes in rough stutters and jolts, and a familiar heat burns up his spine.

James throws his head back against the foam mat, hair sweat-damp and clinging against his forehead. His nails dig into Keith’s shoulders and drag on the thin material of his training suit. James bites his own lip hard enough to draw blood when he comes. Keith strokes him through his orgasm until James paws at him. He wipes his hand on James’ shorts.

Keith pulls away but trembling limbs and his own aching cock means he doesn’t get far; he falls to his back and stares blankly at the ceiling above them. James pants in the corner of his eye.

“The fuck was that?” James demands. The effect is lost in the breathiness of his voice.

Keith licks his lips idly. Blood sits sharp but faint in his mouth from their scuffle. His jaw twinges; he can feel the bruise that will bloom in a few hours. “A distraction.” He shrugs and ignores the way his body resents that explanation, tense and flooded with adrenaline. “It worked.”

“Jesus and all the saints,” comes a muffled curse. James covers his face with his hands.

He knows the feeling. “Something like that.” Keith sits up, belly quivering. His cock aches between his thighs and he ignores it, redirecting his hands to his hair. The loose braid had come halfway undone to spill his locks free down his shoulders. He rolls to his feet and wills his legs to stop their shaking.

“Keith.”

James stares up at him, face flushed and panting, and Keith watches his throat work around his name again. Heat scalds its way down Keith’s spine at the sound of his punched-out breaths.

And when James comes to his feet, all grace and fluid power as he crowds into him, Keith’s mouth goes dry.

How long has it been?

_Too long,_ Keith answers himself with a shake of his head. “Shower—I’ve gotta—” he mutters.

“Keith,” James interrupts. His hand rises between them. Their eyes meet and it’s not until Keith gives a sharp nod that his hand reaches its destination. James cups his jaw, thumb stroking over the corner of Keith’s mouth. His gaze shifts from Keith’s eyes to his lips and back.

God, this is slow torture.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, half an answer to an unspoken question. He groans when James presses forward, free hand landing at his nape, and kisses him.

It’s almost soft, the way James licks into his mouth, the way he molds himself along the planes of Keith’s body. The softness doesn’t last and gives way to something more heated, more desperate. James bites and nips along Keith’s jaw, hands roaming, and Keith gives as well as he gets, scraping his nails into the thin cotton of James’ t-shirt, uncaring of the moans that drop from his lips.

“Shower?” James murmurs into the skin beneath his ear. He laughs when Keith walks him backward toward the locker room, watches with heavy-hooded eyes when Keith’s hands tear at the fastenings of his training suit. 

It’s empty at this time of night, thank God. Keith isn’t sure he’d care if it wasn’t at this point, his attention narrowed to a world that features only James, his cock, and whatever he needs to bridge those two points. His suit hangs limply around his hips, only half undone in his impatience when he shoves James against a wall.

“Fuck,” James groans, lifting a leg easily at Keith’s insistence to wrap around his hip. He shudders as Keith rocks into him, rubbing together through the confines of their clothes. “Oh, God.”

Keith slides his hand up the back of James’ thigh to dig his fingers into the lean muscles of his ass, hauling him closer, harder against his body. He groans into the sweat-slick skin of James’ neck, scraping his teeth along his throat. Wordless moans echo through the locker room. Keith shifts and smothers them, capturing the desperate noises with his mouth.

“Quiet,” he mutters.

James sinks his teeth into Keith’s lower lip and tugs. “Make me.” He gasps when Keith thrusts against him in retaliation, hands scrabbling at Keith’s shoulders. “Fuck, _Keith,_ Jesus, fuck.”

A full-body shiver wracks along Keith’s spine and he pulls back, meeting James’ lust-wide eyes with his own. Fire scours its way along his veins. His attention drops to the plushness of James’ mouth, kiss-bruised and red, and he dips again, licking along the bow of his upper lip.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice rough.

James groans and rubs against him but doesn’t move, only tightening his grip where they touch. Keith drops James’ leg, hand dragging up his thigh as far as he can reach, and steps away. He makes quick work of the rest of his suit and lets it pool around his feet. His right hand drifts almost lazily to wrap around his cock and gives it a slow stroke.

“Kneel, Griffin,” Keith commands again.

James’ brows pinch for a moment before he exhales and lowers to his knees. He nuzzles against the ridge of Keith’s hipbone and wanders his hands up his thighs. “Jesus…”

A shaking breath punches out of Keith’s chest. James’ tongue licks a broad, determined stripe up the shaft. Keith’s hands fist in James’ hair and he shakes from the urge to buck his hips, to ease James’ mouth open and thrust inside. “Fuck. James—_fuck—_come on. Put that mouth to good use for once.”

He bites off a groan when James pulls away.

_“‘For once,’”_ James mutters darkly. His eyes dart from Keith’s cock to his face; a dangerous glint colors his heated gaze. “I’ll show you what I’m _good_ at.”

Keith’s breath stutters in his chest when James dips forward, taking him deep into the damp heat of his mouth. He pulls at James’ hair without thought, earning a groan that rumbles deep in his throat.

“Just like that,” Keith urges breathily, rocking his hips. He can’t help but watch those puffy lips where they stretch almost obscenely around him, watch James bob his head and loosen his jaw to take him deeper. He widens his stance. “Yeah, just like that.”

James slides his hands up Keith’s thighs and pulls off his cock. He wraps a loose fist lazily over the shaft, swiping his thumb across the blunt head, and he catches and holds Keith’s rapt attention when he takes two fingers into his mouth.

“Oh, God.” Keith bucks into his fist, watching James lave at his fingers until they gleam, spit-slick and shiny in the fluorescent light.

“Yeah?” That fucking smirk is back and paired with his messy hair and swollen lips, he looks absolutely illegal. Probably is, on multiple planets, and maybe this one.

Keith can only nod tightly and groan when James swallows him down again.

A punched-out whine echoes off the tiled walls of the locker room when those slick fingers find Keith’s hole with alarming precision. His hips stutter in their rocking as James circles his entrance. The pads of his fingers press but don’t breach, and he wants so badly to—

Someone enters the training room.

“Stop—someone’s coming,” Keith hisses.

James pulls off with a disgruntled noise at the insistent pulling of his hair. “Yeah, _you_, you asshole.”

“I mean—get up!”

Keith retrieves the puddled fabric of his training suit and pulls it back on, adjusting himself within its compression. He pushes James back against the wall. It’s an easy thing, if a badly timed idea, to sweep into the warmth of James’ mouth, to taste himself on his tongue. 

“Probably cleaning staff,” James pants when they break apart a moment later. “We have time.”

“We aren’t teenagers anymore. I don’t wanna get caught by the janitor, do you?” Keith’s hand finds the hard-again line of James’ cock, hot against the cold evidence of James’ earlier orgasm, and squeezes. “Do you?” he asks again, watching a furious red flush work across James’ face and neck.

“N-no,” James bites out.

“Yeah, well, neither do I.”

Keith steps away, his own breath ragged and shaky. “Later, James,” he mutters, and a low whine follows him when he walks to the door.

“What— Fuck you!”

He only flips James off as leaves, greeting the cleaning staff as they set about their work. The door closes heavily behind him.

* * *

James hasn’t so much as looked at Keith in the week since their impromptu encounter. Not that Keith counted, but it was getting obnoxious. Iverson and Holt had put James in charge running his team through their paces from the comms tower, since his jet was still in the engineering bay for repairs, and had the MFEs and Voltron running drills twice a day. Whenever Keith radioed into the tower, James would answer him in quick, clipped sentences. He wouldn’t even address him in person when Keith would submit his reports to Commander Holt at the tower in the morning.

The amount of energy James has spent ignoring Keith is astounding, and, really, bordering on insulting. James wasn’t the one left wanting, so what’s his problem?

“So what’d you do to piss him off this time?” Lance asks finally, keying into a private channel. His face pops up on the display to shoot Keith a raised brow _look_.

They’re on a scheduled break, halfway through the afternoon drill session, and James’ continued lack of response to anything Keith says has been grating on him all week. “Who?” 

“James. He looks like someone kicked his puppy or something. Or insulted his mom.”

Keith huffs. “This isn’t the time.”

Lance groans. “When is there? Is this normal Garrison stuff between you two, or just whatever weird assholey thing you both have going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith snipes back. He crosses his arms defensively. “He’s not talking to me, remember? I’m fine. I’m more than fine. I’m good.”

He only earns a hard-eyed stare of disbelief. “Yeah, sure,” Lance scoffs. “Right. Well, anyway, do I need to have a talk with him? I’ll throw hands if it comes to it, you know I will! We gotta focus on working together, both of our teams, so if he’s being bitchy supreme we need to fix that.”

“It’s _fine,_ Lance.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I guess that means you don’t know that Holt’s noticed and went to Shiro about it, and Shiro mentioned it to me this morning before you got to the flight deck. Said he wanted to talk to you in person about it.”

_Jesus Christ._ “I hate this place so damn much,” Keith mutters. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it sorted.” He cradles his helmeted head in his hands. “Holt really went to Shiro about it? What is he, my dad?”

“Weeeeell, the usual route would be to go to your mom… And your mom’s Krolia, so…”

Keith bites back a frustrated yowl. “Fine, fine. I’ll get it sorted. I’m good.”

“Cool. Look alive, the MFEs are back on deck.”

Keith’s hands grip white-knuckle tight around Black’s controls the rest of the session. They almost don’t make it into Voltron at the end, with his concentration all over the place, and he knows the others can feel something distracting him.

Lance is waiting for him when he exits Black. “What the hell, man?”

“What?” Keith pulls off his helmet warily.

Lance makes a vague gesture with his hand and they walk toward the main building. “You say you’re good then immediately freak out when we go to merge. There’s something bugging you, man. You’ve _got_ to get it together. We almost didn’t come together that last bit.”

“Who died and made you my mom?” Keith asks waspishly.

“Do I need to actually go get her or something?” Lance huffs and shakes his head. “Maybe there’s some Galra combat ritual or something you need to get your head right.” He pauses. “Maybe I should have Veronica and Acxa haul you off for a spa day or something,” he says. Lance eyes Keith with far more consideration than Keith feels is strictly necessary. “You know how Roni has been after you about your split ends. They’re bad, dude.”

“It’s just fucking hair. Jesus! Anything else you need to get off your chest?”

Keith’s stomach goes tight at that when he hears his fumbling words. That’s probably it. He hasn’t had time to himself since the janitors interrupted him and James in the locker room, and it’d been a while since he had the opportunity or time before that. Probably just needs a quick minute and a locked door to take care of things.

A vision of James on his knees slams through his memory.

Maybe he’ll need a few minutes.

“What? No!” Lance sputters. “I mean, you’re like—nope, totally not my type. Nuh-uh. Especially not when you’re being an ornery jerkface in drills. You almost made Rizavi cry yesterday when you yelled at her.”

Keith shakes himself back into the moment. “I… totally didn’t mean that.” He also doesn’t remember the incident in question, which isn’t a point in his favor. “Look, I said I’ll get it sorted. So bug off about it, okay?” He moves to open the door and put the conversation behind him when Lance grabs his arm.

“Hey man, you can tell me, okay?” Lance says, in that weirdly earnest way of his. “If something’s bothering you. We’re a team and teams work together. We’re even friends on most days.”

He eyes Lance’s hand and doesn’t stop himself from giving him a small smile. “Thanks, buddy, but believe me when I say you definitely can’t help me with this.” Keith snorts at Lance’s pout. “Thanks for trying anyway.”

“Yeah, well…” Lance shoves at his shoulder and follows Keith inside. “No more making Rizavi sad, okay? That’s like watching my sisters cry.” He shudders. “It’s weird, man.”

“I’ll try,” Keith says drily. He rolls his eyes and heads for Shiro’s office, dismissing Lance’s yelling behind him with a lazy wave.

“And make sure you apologize, she’s the nice one of the bunch!”

* * *

“You don’t have to make the puppy eyes at me, Shiro. Jeez, you’re worse than the space wolf when he wants something.” 

Shiro laughs, low and deep, and Keith mentally adds more time alone to his to-do list.

“Seems to be the only way to get you to do what I want,” Shiro says with a teasing smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners. God, Keith hates everything right now. “Even if, or maybe especially when, it’s something good for you.”

Keith gives an exaggerated sigh and leans back against the console, the edge of it hitting his low back. He watches Shiro from the corner of his eye. Shiro is still in his uniform, even at this point in the evening. The top two buttons are undone to reveal the hollow of his throat, a small strip of tawny skin that gleams under the bright lights of the Atlas bridge. Keith’s heart stutters in his chest when Shiro casually leans forward, pressing buttons over Keith’s shoulder, bringing that skin closer to his hungry mouth.

He wants to bite it, to scratch and claim and leave his mark. Wants to push the jacket off and follow the lines of Shiro’s throat and shoulders with his mouth, his hands, his teeth. His mouth goes dry at the mental images of Shiro behind him, above him, below him, any way Keith could have him.

“Good for me, huh?” he says, swallowing down the heady rush of desire.

“Mhmm.”

Shiro is impossibly tall at this angle, and Keith could easily bite at the hinge of his jaw. He can almost hear the strangled noise Shiro might make if he licked up the column of his throat, if Keith slid his hands up under his uniform jacket and pushed it from his broad, broad shoulders. Could he goad Shiro into fucking him against the command console, right here? Pull down his pants and bend him over in full view of anyone walking by? It’s been a recurring dream since they arrived, since Shiro took command of the Atlas and grew back into his confidence. Keith wants to bury himself beneath Shiro’s skin, to hold Shiro’s heart in his hand as easily as Shiro holds his own.

He wants, he wants, he _wants._

“...Keith? You’re zoning out, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Keith says, more by rote than anything.

He comes back to the present where Shiro’s waving his hand in front of Keith’s face. Keith drops his eyes and shakes himself back to awareness, focusing on every single un-sexy thing he can think of to distract his growing erection. Reports. Mom. Reports assigned by Mom. Mom and Shiro. Shiro learning every dirty, secret want in Keith’s head and finding it all disgusting. Shiro never speaking to him again.

Shiro, Shiro, Shiro.

_Jesus._

“Just, uh, tired. Long day.”

Shiro does that thing with his mouth, the half-frown that says _I’m worried about you_. “Okay,” he says. “It’s getting late, yeah. Didn’t realize how long we’ve been here. But think about what I said, okay?” Shiro pushes his Altean hand through his hair, raking great big furrows into the pale strands. “I’m worried about you two. You both seem off lately, and—”

“—and that’s a risk we can’t afford, yeah,” Keith finishes for him. He fakes a yawn and does his best to look contrite. “I’ll work on it,” he offers.

“I’m glad. I’ve already spoken with James about it. He seemed… I’m not sure. Embarrassed? I tried being gentle, but I know Iverson wouldn’t have been so helpful if he was the one to address it with either of you.”

“Yeah, he—” Keith broke off, tensing. He scowled. “You talked to James, too? What are we, six? What the hell, Shiro.”

Shiro put up his hands, fingers spread. “It’s just been affecting the teams, is all. Holt saw that both of your teams were off, and had the numbers to back it up. I just, you know, checked in with James this morning.” His expression turns, softens, definitely the mom-friend. “I know you two had, ah, some rough times as cadets, and wanted to remind you both that there are better ways to work through whatever is going on than by freezing each other out.”

Keith scrubs his hands over his face. “I can’t believe you,” he says through his fingers.

“Yeah, well, I can’t believe me, either. But Holt is on me about it, says if we can’t get you two back to working together we’ll have to break out the ‘get-along’ shirt, whatever that is.”

Keith spreads his fingers and spears Shiro with a muted glare. “That sounds _horrifying._”

“Doesn’t it?” Shiro shrugs, and he’s back to that beautiful smile. “Anyway, it’s getting late.” His hand rises to Keith’s shoulder and gives a brief squeeze. “You should get some rest.”

Keith can’t help but relax under Shiro’s touch. “You should come to bed, too,” he murmurs softly, dropping his hands from his face only to realize his mistake. “I mean, _go_ to bed. You should get to bed, too. Yeah, I’m gonna—I’m gonna go. Goodnight!”

He peels himself away from the console and walks quickly off the bridge, face burning. Shiro calls back but he can’t hear it over the blood pounding in his ears.

What a fucking disaster.

* * *

It’s the middle of the night. The room is dark and at the right temperature, and the blankets are draped just right across his hips. The hallway outside is quiet. Black is a solid weight at the back of his mind and he imagines she’s sleeping, too, dreaming of quintessence fields or mice or space or space mice or whatever it is alien robot lion spaceships dream about.

It’s perfect.

And Keith can’t fucking sleep.

His hand trails down his bare chest almost without thinking, skirting over his belly to linger at his cock. In his mind, a fantasy man tries to take form—tall, bright smile, bulging biceps—and he shakes it away. Focuses on the sensation of blood pooling in his groin, on the feeling of his dick slowly growing hard under his hand.

It’s hard to keep the fantasy from adopting a face, but it’s the only way things can work and still allow him to look anyone in the eye in the morning.

Keith fondles himself to full hardness with just his fingertips before slipping his boxers down his thighs. His palms are lightly calloused, a reminder that he needs to requisition new gloves, and the rough spots rasp over his skin. He shudders at the sensation, stroking lazily with a loose fist. His other hand roams his chest and pinches his nipples to stand at attention.

He imagines the wet heat of a mouth. Not any particular one—faceless, just a tunnel of silky warmth, the slight scrape of teeth to make things extra interesting. His hand twists at the base and strokes up. Mystery Man forms imaginary puffy lips, kiss-bruised and red, swallowing him down with ease.

A shaky sigh wobbles out of him. Keith keeps his hand slow, methodical in his touch. If he can drag this out long enough, teeter on the edge a few times, maybe it’ll get him centered again. A dribble of pre-come pools on his pelvis and he swipes it up with his fingers to help with the glide of his hand.

Mystery Man has beautiful eyes of an almost indeterminate color that look up at him. Keith shies away from the image and tightens his grip. He slides his free hand down to cup his balls, gently squeezing and releasing in turn. A familiar fire builds in his belly and spreads through him. Each slick stroke brings him closer. He moves his fingers down to the sensitive skin behind his sac, pressing in time with his fist.

God, he needs this. His hips buck up from the mattress and he rocks into his hand. Mystery Man groans around his cock and Keith can feel it, can feel the rumbling sound press into him as Keith fucks his mouth. Keith’s fingers abandon their position to swipe up a coating of precome and delve further to press two fingertips at his entrance.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes squeezed closed. His fist stills and squeezes at the base of his cock and he prods himself open, the pads of his fingers rough against—

A knock sounds at the door.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Keith growls into the darkness, the fantasy lost. 

He takes a moment to breathe before stumbling out of bed and pulling his boxers up. Keith stalks across the small room to the attached bathroom—perks of being a Paladin, that the Atlas enjoys the team her Captain loves so much and wants to be good to them—and washes his hands before returning. He wraps his blanket around himself to hide his not-at-all-flagging cock and stalks to the door.

“Someone actually better be dead or dying, or it might be you,” Keith grumbles. “Do you know what time—oh.” James stands outside his door, mouth set in a mulish line. Keith’s eyes land on his lips for a moment before darting away. “What do you want?”

James’ left eye twitches. “Can I come in?”

Keith sighs and moves to let him through. “You know what time it is?”

“Yes,” James snaps. He fumbles for the small lamp Keith keeps on his bedside table. Keith slaps his hand away to turn it on before he can knock it down and break it. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“What?”

“Yeah.” James crosses his arms and glowers at him. “Nadia came to me and said you yelled at her yesterday for something that was no one’s fault. Said she felt like you were targeting her for something. What was that about?”

Keith shrugs. “Must’ve been having a bad day. An apology is already on my to-do list. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” he offers. “I don’t remember the particular instance.”

“Yeah, well, make sure you do that. She’s a great pilot. I don’t want you messing with our teams’ dynamics. And don’t even get me started with the Shiro stunt!”

“Mess with the—” Keith bristles, scowling. “You’re the one who hasn’t even spoken to me in a week! Went from not listening to me to not interacting at all, then barging in here in the middle of the night. If either of us is an asshole, Griffin, it’s you!”

“I—”

The blanket slips down Keith’s shoulders. James cuts off whatever response he is preparing. Keith can all but _feel_ James’ gaze on his shoulder, at the conspicuous mouth-shaped bruise there, yellowed and almost healed. An honest-to-God shiver runs through James.

Keith’s focus turns razor-sharp at the small movement. “You were saying?” he prompts when James doesn’t go on.

James’ tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “You’re an asshole, have I mentioned that?”

Keith shrugs, letting his blanket slip further down his arms, and watches with growing interest as James tracks the movement of his shoulders. “Maybe. But you’re the one interrupting a _very _happy moment alone. So unless you’re thinking of joining me...”

James gives a low groan. “You’re—” he starts, stepping forward.

“You mentioned.” The blanket slides to pool on the floor. Keith warms with arousal and not a small bit of pride at the way James rakes his eyes over his body. “So.”

“No strings?”

Keith snorts. “Hell no.”

“Supplies?”

“In the nightstand.” They’re nearly touching now. Keith’s mouth goes dry at the way the light pools in James’ eyes. “If you—”

“Shut up,” James mutters, pushing him against the cool metal of the door. There’s no finesse in the way they come together, the way James takes his mouth. And he does—there’s no softness now, no hesitation. James snakes his hand into Keith’s hair, still damp from an earlier shower, and his other hand presses finger-shaped bruises into Keith’s hip. Stubble from a missed shave scrubs against his chin, his jaw, his throat.

There’s almost not a chance for Keith to take back control. He’s not sure he wants to. James’ fingers tighten in the hair at his nape and Keith can feel him, hard and hot through the soft pajama pants that cling to his legs. He tips his head back at James’ insistence and gasps when teeth find the bruise on his shoulder, worrying the skin once more before leaving new marks just above it.

It’s a blur when James hikes him into his arms, hands squeezing his ass and thighs when Keith wraps his legs around his waist. There’s a deceptive strength to James, Keith knows, hidden by the flight suits and uniforms. But those are gone now; Keith drapes his arms over James’ shoulders and digs his fingers into the hard muscles of his back through his sleep-shirt.

“Bed,” Keith commands.

“Anyone tell you that you’re a bossy lay?”

Keith flexes his thighs around James’ waist and moans at the friction of his cock against James’ abs. “You wanna stop?” 

James tightens his grip on Keith’s ass and pulls them closer. He drags his mouth along the skin of Keith’s neck to mutter, “God, no.”

“Then, bed.”

A few short steps and then he’s tossed to the mattress. Keith watches with rapt attention at the way James drags the hem of his shirt up. The fabric crawls with frustrating slowness up from his hips, revealing strong, tight abs, the lean lines of his chest, and wide, bite-worthy shoulders. His fingers burn at the way the light clings to James’ skin.

James lets the shirt drip from his fingers. Keith bites his tongue to keep from pouncing on him.

Next are the pants, a soft grey cotton that clings to James’ hips and thighs; he pushes it down inch by agonizing inch. The sharp jut of James’ hipbones just beg for Keith to bite. Keith imagines the ways those thighs would quake under his mouth, under his hands. James kicks the pants off and aside and Keith can’t tear his eyes away from the way his muscles move with the motion.

James stalks through the short distance between them and finally cages Keith in with a thigh wedged between his legs. The pressure is—fuck, the way James grinds against him almost drags Keith up the mattress. Keith wraps himself around him and whines into his mouth. “Come on…”

“I’ve got you,” is all James says. He kisses his way down Keith’s throat, scraping his teeth on the edge of his collarbone, on his pecs. His teeth catch on Keith’s nipple and Keith keens under him, back arching in the narrow space between them. “I’ve got you,” James murmurs again. James kneels on the floor at the edge of the bed and pulls Keith to him easily.

Keith fists one hand in James’ hair when that questing mouth finally angles toward his groin. Stubble rasps against the ridge of his pelvis when James nibbles at the waistband of his boxers. He fucking _aches_ and James only teases. His fist pulls insistently and James chuckles against his skin. 

“Bossy.” James slides Keith’s boxers down his hips, kissing the skin left revealed until the material bunches around one ankle. He easily spreads Keith’s legs and—

The fucker _pauses_.

Keith opens eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed and levers up onto his hand, only to see James’ eyes fixated on the flushed purple-red of his cock where it juts insistently toward Keith’s belly. James briefly glances up but turns back south and his fingers press into the muscles of Keith’s thighs.

“...so damn pretty,” James says, softly, wounded, like it’s a secret. “I just want to…” His hands shift and he drapes Keith’s legs over his shoulders.

“Anything you want,” Keith grunts, digging his heels into James’ back, “just—_ohmygod.”_

There’s no coy playfulness in the way James takes him into his mouth this time. It’s just suction and friction and warmth and—oh god, the thing he’s doing with his tongue. James takes him back back back and _swallows_ and Keith sees stars. He’s tight and hot and while Keith’s had some great blowjobs before, he can’t think of any that make him want to take off like a goddamn rocket like this one does. James falls into a tight rhythm, taking Keith’s cock to the back of his throat and holding for a beat before bobbing away—again, and again, and again, wet and hot.

It’s going to make Keith cry, it’s so good.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers pulling at his bangs, “I’m gonna—” James only grips his hips and pulls him closer to bury his nose in the thatch of hair at Keith’s pelvis. Keith arches off the bed, driving into James’ mouth without thought, holding him down by the fists in his hair. James swallows again and it sends him over the edge. Keith spurts down his throat with a gasped cry.

James, to his credit, takes it pretty well, only pulling off with an obscene _smack_ when Keith slumps to the mattress once more. He coughs and sputters, and when he looks up Keith can see the welling of tears in his eyes. Keith brushes one away with his thumb when it falls down James’ cheek.

A shaking breath shudders out of him. His cock still stands proud, aching for another go, and Keith throws his arm over his eyes.

“How are you possibly still hard?” James’ voice is a low, gravelly groan that curls Keith’s toes. _He _did that.

“Galra thing,” Keith mutters, breathless. “It’s—it’s biology, I guess. No real refractory period or something.”

A pause, then: “Are you too sensitive, or do you want more?”

Keith slants a look to him to find a contemplative gleam in James’ eyes. “I—yeah,” he says, and the way James grins twists his insides. Keith licks his lips. “Yeah.”

James repositions him further up the bed onto his hands and knees, pressing his shoulders down. “Stay down,” he says when he moves away, just this side of commanding. The nearby nightstand rattles with motion.

“Bite me,” Keith mutters. He yelps in surprise a moment later when James does exactly that. James’ hands smooth up his legs and over his ass as his mouth soothes the nip at the crease of his thigh. “Jesus Christ.” He widens his stance at James’ silent direction and is spread just that much wider by unseen hands. Keith relaxes his spine, knowing where this is going.

“Yeah?” Hot breath puffs over the sensitive skin of Keith’s entrance and stubble rasps against his cheeks. James pets his thumbs along the sensitive skin of the cleft of Keith’s ass.

This is _not_ where Keith thought it was going. He shakes under James’ hands and bites his lip.

“Keith?”

Arousal sharpens to a razor’s keen edge in his belly and Keith only barely keeps himself from yelling. “God, yes, fuck, just—” The words dissolve into a wordless groan. James strokes his tongue just around the tight furl of his entrance with a slow drag up one side, then the other. He pauses, breath scalding over Keith’s skin.

“Good?”

“Again,” Keith demands, burying his face in his arms. He shudders when James licks at him with slow, languid strokes. It’s like his skin is on fire; everywhere they touch burns and any stray movement might set the sheets ablaze. Keith must do something, must shift or rock or cry, because he can feel the sharp huffs of James laughing behind him.

“Easy, easy,” James murmurs. He rubs a hand down Keith’s thigh. “Is this your first time?”

Keith shifts restlessly. “I’m not a virgin,” he snaps, “if that’s what you’re asking.” James pets this thumb over his hole and Keith’s snark dissolves into a sharp gasp.

James licks into him before Keith can brace himself. It’s messy and slick, alternating between sharp, deliberate flicks and long, flat strokes. Keith rocks back and is rewarded; James pries him apart and pushes the tip of his tongue into the tight ring of muscle.

An attempt at James’ name leaves Keith’s lips on a breathless whine, and he can feel the whisper of a chuckle against his skin. Keith tunnels a hand into his own hair as James works him loose and pulls so hard tears prickle at his eyes. It’s good—it’s so, so good. Christ, how did Keith, in all his fumblings with other Blades, not realize how many ways pleasure could be wrung from a body?

James shifts behind him and Keith jumps at the addition of one, then soon two slick fingers slowly pressing inside. James still laps at his rim as he strokes into him. A full-body shudder creeps up Keith’s spine.

“Shi—hah—_shit,_ yes, yes…” Keith can’t help the babbling that escapes him and only barely manages not to ruin this crystal-fragile moment. He rocks back into the pressure, tearing at his own hair, nails scrabbling at his scalp.

Keith tries to speak only to lose himself when James crooks his fingers inside him. The world whites out behind his eyelids; he comes for what feels like hours, fire scorching up his spine and leaving him trembling. He collapses into a shaking, panting heap and only barely misses the wet spot.

“More,” he pants. Everything in Keith aches, body and soul. Something in him still _needs_, still begs for satisfaction. He’ll have to poke at that later. “Fuck me.”

James puts his hands on Keith again, stroking from thigh to ribs and down again. Keith groans at the touch of nails over his overheated skin and shuffles to his knees again. Softness never was their thing, but Keith could excuse the gentleness of James’ touches for a few minutes longer if it meant his hands were still on him.

The bed shifts behind him and the mattress dips under James’ weight. Crinkling foil cuts through the noise of Keith’s rushed breathing. Strong fingers stroke up his thighs and over his ass.

“How…?”

Keith surges to his knees and pushes James flat to straddle his waist. He leans back, snags the nearby bottle of lube, and wastes no time in slicking his own fingers and fucking himself open again with a focused purpose.

“Holy shit,” James breathes beneath him, his hands roving over the expanse of Keith’s thighs. “Fuck. Yeah, come on…”

Keith spears him with a hard glare, only to have his eyes flutter closed at a twist of his hand. He’s panting again, chest heaving. Keith shifts and James brings his hands to Keith’s waist.

“Ready for me?” Keith withdraws his hand, a thrill of satisfaction humming through him at the way James nods and tracks the movements of his messy hand. He drips a squirt of lube over James’ cock and spreads it out, the motion uncoordinated and sloppy; James jolts and throbs under his fingers, eager anyway.

James only nods, throat bobbing with the force of his swallowed gasp. Keith reaches between them to guide James’ cock to his hole and, keeping his gaze, drops himself down.

The sound of their mingled groans—dark, raspy, _filthy—_ fills the room as Keith works to take it all. God, it’s just—fucking Christ, it feels like lightning in his gut, makes him _full,_ like the hole in his soul might be just as easily filled if he works hard enough. He seats himself fully, rocking in James’ lap, and has to take a stuttering breath. He can feel James’ cock twitching inside him, pulsing with heat.

“Jesus and all the saints...” James gives an aborted half-thrust beneath him, hands clutched tight to Keith’s hips. A low moan tears from him when Keith starts to move. His nails dig furrows into Keith’s skin; sparks skid and bloom in their wake.

Keith pinches lazily at James’ nipples, already peaked and sensitive, and grins at the noise he makes. Dark, wide eyes watch Keith’s every move, darting from his flushed face to his cock to where Keith takes him in so greedily.

“Keith... Oh god, yeah, just like that.”

_Watch me,_ Keith silently demands. His fingers sketch a shaky path up James’ chest and rest atop the hollow of his throat for a moment before moving to cup his chin. _Don’t look away._ He bends forward with a sinuous roll of his hips; the change in angle shifts how James strokes into him. Keith drops his head against James’ chest and urges his knees up to take James harder.

“Fuck me like you hate me, Griffin,” Keith murmurs, just before sinking his teeth into the meat of James’ shoulder.

James responds _beautifully._ He surges up, jostling a surprised moan from Keith. His arm snakes under Keith’s knee, pressing it up to his chest, and the other wraps around Keith’s back like a steel band. James cements a hand to clutch at Keith's shoulder and pin him in place, leverage to pull him down as James snaps up into Keith's tight heat. The heavy slap of flesh on flesh is obscene, rivaled only by the sounds that tear from them both. James crashes his lips against Keith’s own and bites down so hard that iron floods both of their mouths.

This is no choreographed spar, built on an even footing; it's a back-alley fistfight, a no-holds-barred battle for dominance. Keith snarls into the kiss and shoves his fingers into James’ hair, tugging and pulling and scratching for every furrow James digs into his back. He is a wild thing, straining against James’ firm hold even as much as he needs it.

James’ arm at his back squeezes, trapping Keith to him, and Keith ruts mindlessly against the firm muscles of James’ abs. He hardly pays any notice to the keening, mewling noises that rip from him. James keeps him tight, grinding into him, the hand at Keith’s shoulder levering him hard down onto his cock.

Teeth press into his throat and finally—_finally—_Keith explodes.

He muffles his cry with a clenched fist at his mouth as he comes. It’s so hot it almost scalds between them, flooding over their bellies with thick wetness. James follows soon after, his own noise smothered where he bites down on Keith’s neck. His cock burns like a brand inside Keith, pulsing hot and heavy. James’s hips stutter in half-thrusts and soon they both collapse; Keith slumps across him, pliant and yielding, finally sated.

James idly sketches his fingers down Keith's spine. They dip between his cheeks and play at his rim, stretched wide around James’ softening cock. Keith makes a noise and they gentle, petting and stroking lightly as he pulls out. Latex squeaks quietly behind him and James flings the condom into the nearby trash can. His hands return to stroke over the gaping muscle of Keith’s asshole, wet and open.

“Jesus Christ.” 

James utters the words into Keith’s neck, laving over the bite marks with his tongue. Three fingers slip inside, not with any real intent, just to sit there, to keep Keith spread to the cool air. His thumb pets the curve of Keith’s cheek.

It’s almost too soft to take, the stillness after. “Didn’t know you were into dudes,” Keith murmurs.

James’ movements still for a beat. He grunts a noncommittal noise. “You weren’t into anyone who wasn’t Shiro.”

It’s true, just as much as it isn’t. Keith doesn’t give a response and deliberately does not wonder at the possibility of that statement. “I should shower. We both should,” he amends, wrinkling his nose. Keith shudders as he pulls himself away, the sticky mess on his chest and belly growing cold without James’ solid body heat.

“...yeah. Ugh,” James sighs, “not looking forward to this particular walk of shame.”

“Private shower. Go.” He all but kicks James out of the bed, the ball of his foot catching on James’ calf. He falls to his back to stare at the ceiling. His ass is warm with a dull throbbing pain he’ll definitely feel in the morning. “Soap and stuff are on the shelf. Use whatever.”

“See, I knew you guys were his favorite.” The familiar barb lacks heat; it’s a common one thrown Keith's way, at least, a holdover from his cadet days long since passed. There are plenty who still resent him, even in the middle of the war. Keith shrugs it off.

“Blame the Atlas, not Shiro. It’s the Altean tech.” Keith flaps his hand dismissively. “I don’t know, I’m not an engineer.”

James snorts, disbelief clear in the noise. Keith listens to the sound of his footsteps move away. The shower turns on. Keith groans and rolls off the bed, stripping the messy sheets and wiping himself mostly clean before balling them up and tossing them to the door. He lets himself slump back to the edge of the bare mattress and stares unfocused at the wall.

The shower eventually stops. A muffled string of curses erupts from behind the closed door. James comes out soon enough; Keith can smell his shampoo in the dense fog that wafts across his quarters. The towel hangs dangerously low on his hips. James smirks when he catches Keith staring.

“Your turn.” James steps into the room and collects his clothes. The fabric of his shirt catches on his still-damp skin.

“In a bit.” Keith hangs his head in his hands and closes his eyes.

“Keith?” Soft footsteps bring him closer. Keith imagines he might be reaching out. He dashes it quickly. Softness was never their thing; tenderness never grew between them.

James’ fingers brush a lock of sweat-damp hair at Keith’s crown; not even enough to move it, but just to touch, tentative and light. It takes all Keith has not to lean into the touch.

“I don't hate you, you know,” James says. The silence stretches between them and fills the room like wet cotton. “Never did... but damn, sometimes I wish you’d make it easier to like you.”

An answer tumbles from his lips before Keith can stop it. “Yeah, well, didn’t have anyone to teach me how to be likeable.”

James gives a tired sigh into the ensuing silence. “Yeah, well,” he echoes. “I, uh. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early.”

The door shuts with a quiet click. Keith falls flat upon the bed, a strange hollowness settling in his stomach. Sweat and the lingering scent of James’ shampoo cling to his pillows around him. He listens to James’ soft swear outside his door and waits for his footsteps to retreat down the hallway.

“I’m not sure life _can_ be easy,” Keith mutters to the silent room. “Don’t know I’d recognize it if it were.”

He lingers on the bed until the mess that remains on his skin irks him into action. Keith dutifully remakes his bed before heading to the shower, washing the pressure of James’ mouth from his skin. His body stings from a hundred little bruises and scrapes. He scrubs himself until his skin lay raw and red, frazzled in stark counterpoint to his empty mind.

Keith catches himself in the small patch of mirror that isn’t completely clouded over after he steps out of the shower. Bite marks litter their way over his shoulders and throat, some light, some dark. He pokes at one on his neck, deep enough to bruise and wide enough that his collar won’t cover it all. James always was a little bit of a bastard; doesn’t look like that’s changed.

He imagines Shiro’s eyes at the sight and isn’t sure what reaction he’d see in those grey depths.

Frowning, Keith turns away from the mirror. He slides into bed still damp, only stopping to toss on some boxers and a pair of pants as an afterthought. He clicks off the lamp and can’t help but imagine Shiro’s eyes here, too, with his body still soft and pliant as exhaustion catches up with him.

Maybe Keith’s a bit of a bastard too.

He tosses the pillow to the floor and curls into himself, his back to the wall, and throws himself into the darkness of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate comments and kudos, and strive to answer them all! 
> 
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